


Tranquility Taken

by MintyNutmeg



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dark, Drama, Kidnapping, Multi, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintyNutmeg/pseuds/MintyNutmeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's Hawke! They've taken her-" Merrill broke off, sobbing, clutching at Isabela and Anders, "The Templars." A dangerous game between rogue Templars and the Champion of Kirkwall's entire household has begun. Who will survive until the bitter end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Goal Set

Chapter 1- Goal Set

It was a strange day.

The atmosphere was pulled taut, and there was an extreme, unnerving tenseness in everyone. Usually when Anders walked through Lowtown market, there was an inimitable liveliness and bustle – however, today, there was a heavy air that slumped the shoulders of all he passed. Hundreds of pairs of eyes shifted away from his own curious gaze, falling to determinedly bore into the floor. Frowns etched even deeper into the already profound creases of worry indented into people's faces. It was never a good sign if even the town whore could not summon enough false cheer to ring out into the street at potential johns, instead giving up and pulling her rags tighter around herself, mumbling unhappily about the cold and bizarre nature of the day to any she passed.

Anders sat in the Hanged Man, by the ubiquitous Varric and the ever-popular Isabela as they played a game of Wicked Grace whilst flinging down Orzammar ale despite it being the middle of the day, pondering on what was so wrong. In spite of it being stifling hot in the small, cramped pub, which was filled with people who were trying to escape the sharp winter chill of outside by piling in far earlier than they normally would, Anders felt a coolness in him, a peculiar and unwanted tightening of his senses.

Even Isabela, who usually paid no heed to much outside of her immediate pleasure or potential night-time prey for her lust, was affected, it seemed, as she wondered aloud, "What's wrong with everyone today?" She slapped down a card onto the table, knocking the side of her drink in the process, before continuing, "They all seem so…" She trailed off, focussing on the card she had just placed down, frowning in displeasure.

Varric, too, was disturbed. Dextrously flicking out a card, he said, "I know what you mean; every person I've seen today looks like they drank Marbari piss for their breakfast."

Laughing at this, Isabella nodded, adding, "Or maybe dragon shit. Remember that time we fought one of those gigantic bastards, and Hawke ended up in a pile of its waste? She couldn't wash out the smell for weeks – and she said it tasted bloody awful!" She snorted in amusement, "I can imagine it did!"

Varric chuckled as he recalled the story, having been there to witness the horrendous event when it took place, remembering clearly Hawke shaking herself down like a dog might do after going for a swim, a repulsive brown tinge to all of her clothes as she yelled, horrified, ' _I ATE SHIT. I. JUST. ATE. SHIIIIIIT.'_

After taking another shot of the game she could now play quite above adequecy with her eyes closed, Isabela looked to Anders, catching his attention, "What's got you down, then, Anders? You look just as bad as everybody else here does."

Instead of grumbling an sardonic 'thanks' as he might have usually, Anders remained silent. Isabela shrugged and returned to her game, whilst Varric took a shot at cheering up the mage, bending the cards forward into himself so that the wily pirate before him would not sneak a glance, "She's right, Blondie. I'll get you an ale." The dwarf leisurely gulped down the rest of his own tankard, casually placing down his last card and grinning as he declared, "Full house," pulled forth all of the now furious Isabela's pile of gold towards him, picked up a shiny sovereign and strolled over to the bar.

Moaning loudly, Isabela kicked the side of Varric's chair before throwing her legs up onto it. Scowling, she sighed in defeat, mumbling, " _Damned dwarf beating me at my own game_.". After a moment of nothing, however, she took a careful glance at Varric's back, swiftly plucked up a couple of pieces of gold, and shoved them into her brassiere with a practiced turn of the hand. Smirking, she nonchalantly adjusted her top, patting it down to loosen any conspicuous lumps of money, and finally placed her arms behind her head, rocking her chair happily in triumph. Anders watched the exchange between her top and Varric's gold without much interest, still stuck in his own thoughts.

Varric turned back around, placed a frothy amber ale down in front of Anders, another before Isabela, and kept the last in his own hand. Sitting back down as Isabela moved her legs away for him, he took a long, fulfilled sip before bringing the tankard back down to sit on the table. Smacking his lips in satisfation, he drawled, grinning as usual, "I expect you to be putting those back, Bandana."

Sucking in an abrupt gulp of air, Isabela swore, though not in a bad temper. She laughed, shrugged, and reached unabashedly into her top, digging out the smothered sovereigns and letting them roll out onto the table. Following a minute or so of this, Varric chuckling all the while, she stopped and gestured to the coins in a clear indication of finality. Giving her one last studious skim over her face, Varric smiled and sat back, going back to his drink, tiny legs propped up before him. Isabela glanced at the man, checking to see his focus was momentarily on his tankard, then caught Anders eye, reached down to her chest and conspiratorily flashed him a glimpse of one last hidden coin, winking.

A while passed with them sitting there, drinking in silence, Varric remaining surprisingly quiet along with Isabela, as both were obviously fixed in deep considerations – Varric was likely thinking on a piece of gossip he had heard or invented about one of their group, and Isabela was probably trying to remember what blonde she had been with the night before.

Draining the last of her ale, Isabela wiped her mouth and stood, stretching her arms over her head, proud chest jutting out before her as she spoke, "Alright; I'm going to go shopping. See you later, you two – try not to get too out of control, you wild, crazy fool, Anders." She smiled in tease with Varric and turned to the door, strolling unhurriedly forward. Anders even cracked a small grin, if only because that sounded like something Hawke would say to try and cheer him up.

Facing the mage again, Varric allowed his legs to fall back down to the floor, and opened his mouth, eyes glinting as he prepared to tell a story. He got to say, " _So_ ; let me tell you about this quest Hawke and I went on without you," before he was abruptly interrupted by a thunderous crash and a surprised cry from Isabela.

"Kitten?"

Heads whipped around to look at the gaping door as it flailed in the strong Winter wind, snow roaring in from the ashen outdoor world, where Merrill suddenly stood, gasping desperately, cheeks flaming red from exhaustion and clothes flying undone about her. Anders stood in alarm with Varric, not at seeing her in so much dishevelment – he had seen her in far worse shape since they had both joined Hawke and their ragtag group for adventures in danger – but at the look in her wide, doe-like eyes. There was one unadulterated, pure emotion that saturated her gaze, only one.

Fear.

She panted frantically, hands imprisoning the door frame in a death grip, and hunched over as she tried to regain control of her breathing, desperate to speak. Isabela, displaying a rare showcase of concern, gently took hold of the elf, allowing the dainty girl to fall into her grasp, softly mumbling words of comfort. However, the frightened elf, instead of calming down, yelled, arms flying onto the pirate, seizing hold of her front, screaming out, " _Hawke! Hawke! They've got Hawke!"_

Anders strode forward immediately to the side of the girl as she wheezed, panicking, terrified out of her wits, unsteadily repeating over and over again what she had just said. The room began to mumble in unease, the tension of the day boiling over to the present.

Hands patting Merrill's back, Varric softly but firmly urged her on, saying, "Come on, Daisy, it's okay. Come on."

Coughing, she spluttered out, tears running in thick rivulets down her delicate face, " _Hightown_ , they got her there, we were walking, going, going somewhere, Sebastian shouted _something_ , and it all, all of it, _all_ -" She gasped before continuing, "They _grabbed_ her, right out of the street, took her, she screamed, and we-" She sobbed, "They got Hawke. _The Templars._ "

The pub went deathly silent.

Anders felt his face drain of all colour. Nausea overpowered him. It took all of his self-will not to vomit right there on the floor. Varric and Isabela exchanged a startled glance. Varric's hands tightened into fists. Isabela's arms clenched taut. They both softly let Merrill stand away from them slightly, supporting her gently by her arms as she tried to straighten back up.

Isabela looked straight into Merrill's fraught gaze and asked her, voice staying level only due to practice under pressure, "Where is she, Merrill?"

Merrill's lip trembled as she shakily answered, magic flaring at her hands in distress, "We don't know." Isabela's eyes widened as she coninued, " _We don't know._ Aveline tried to get her back, but we were out cold. We don't know."

" _Shit."_ The pirate closed her eyes, scowling. No sound was made for a few minutes, as the four who stood at the still wildly gaping door remained where they were, frantically thinking of where she could be.

Finally, without a word, Anders walked back over to their table and picked up his staff. Staring intensely at the other three, he strode out. Instantly, they followed, immediately arranging themselves around him, drawing their weapons, setting into a desperate run. They stayed silent.

Anders fought internally, his thoughts panicked and jumbled. Justice attacked the fringes of his mind, and he fought, madly trying to keep a steady head, struggling to not give in to the overwhelming anger at Hawke's capture.

_**They dare take Hawke?** _ _**They** _ _**dare?** _

_No, not now. Not. Now. I need to_ _think_ _. Where—_

_**-I will slaughter every one of them. None will live. None. They dare? They dare?** _

_Not now. Not until we find Hawke._

Varric's worried voice reached his ears, "Where are we going, Anders?"

Instantaneously, Anders answered, "To Meredith."

_Not now. We will find Hawke._

_And_ _then_ _we will kill them all._


	2. Chapter 2 - Game Start

Chapter 2 - Game Start

Booted feet crunching heavily through the grey, biting snow, gleaming weapons clanging weightily against their backs as their unarmoured chests heaved with raw, harsh gasps, cold sweat pooling in their windswept clothes, the group faced no opposition in their path.

People who would normally leer slack-jawed at Isabela, asked for a tale from Varric or requested medical assistance from Anders avoided them as a crowd does upon abrupt, startling contact with an enraged lion storming free from it's cage. Upon seeing their gazes boring darkly into the distance, a blazing undercurrent simmering barely beneath the surface of their sharp eyes, the streets cleared, every human, elf, and dwarf backing away – even a lone Qunari, face dark as he determinedly strode towards his destination, backed away upon recognising to whom the group belonged, a staid, knowing nod in their direction in approval of their visceral fury that singed every person they passed. Merrill's gaze was far less burning, but painfully agonised, dried tear tracks staining her sickeningly pale face as her eyes wavered on the tower they were blazing a trail towards, a nauseous, toxic feeling lurching around her stomach as she tightly gripped her polished wooden staff.

By then, it was late afternoon, and the shops they passed were beginning to close; but they paid little heed to their surroundings. It was unspoken that the search would continue as long as it had to go on – until they found the woman they all craved to see again, and then brought the unfortunate creatures who had taken her to a long-drawn and unhappy end. The sun had not yet retired for the moon to take its charge – but it was approaching that lateness, and it was quite certain that by the time they reached the Gallows, the darkness of night would blanket the skyline in a swathe of unending blackness, bathing the streets with shadows and allowing the seeping of danger pooling in the depths of the city to flood around them.

As he turned a corner, Anders screeched to an abrupt halt, a stark stumble away from slamming forcefully into a wall-like shield. He looked up, halting in his instinct to push past and continue on his course, twice as fast to make up for the few lost seconds, as he recognised the roaring emblem of the shield as Aveline's, who he saw when his eyes flickered distractedly before him. She looked as much of a gladiator as usual, made even more imposing by the sight of a crowd of guards, including her husband, crowded protectively around her.

Upon her own recognition of Anders and the rest of her friends, Aveline's dark and grim Roman-esque features flashed. Swiftly, she signalled her suddenly even more alert men – aside from Donnic, who identified his long-term allies at the same instance as his wife – to stand down from their defensiveness, silently ordering them to sheath their weapons with a stiff wave of her hand. She, however, kept her blade and shield out, ready for action at the slightest threat, and got down to business without the slightest pause, as she always did, "Are you going to the Gallows?"

Anders answered, voice fluctuating between his attempts at calm and his intense fear and fury, "Yes - come with us."

"I will." Just as Anders and the other two made to move forward again, she put out a hand, stopping them, and explained, "We have to wait a moment: Sebastian and Fenris will be here in a minute. They went to try and track Hawke." The group behind Anders stiffened, hopeful for a scarce moment, but Anders could tell immediately from the stern grimace set on Aveline's face that the other two's attempts had failed, "It didn't work." There was a moment of pause, as the others disappointedly slumped their shoulders, barely holding back sighs of frustration. Aveline continued, pushing through the worsened feelings of the team, "They went to grab some lyrium potions from a backstreet smuggler, while Merrill went for you and I gathered my men. I think, this time at least, we can afford to ignore some petty crimes."

"Why lyrium?" Varric interjected, eyebrows raised in question.

Biting back a growl of anger, Anders answered for her, explaining with an ominous understanding for his fellow mage, "For Hawke – they will have drained her to dangerously low levels of mana to take her more easily." This thought made his eyes flash blue with the influence of Justice for a moment, causing Aveline's posture to grow taut with caution, her hand tightening around her longsword with the instinctual twitch borne from witnessing the terrible unleashed wrath of the spirit, before he clamped down on the anger with an iron strength fueled by the need for concentration.

Giving Anders a final look of wariness and a silent warning as he flicked his eyes away for the briefest of moments, aware of her close scrutiny, Aveline elaborated to the unitiated rogues, "We had to give Merrill all of the lyrium potions we had with us, after they drained her in the fight."

Shifting forward slightly, a self conscious twitch tugging her limbs as she drummed her fingers in a sort of comforting action against her staff, Merrill broke in on the conversation, her tightly uneasy voice strained as she quietly inferred, "It hurt a lot, getting drained. We'll need a lot of lyrium for Hawke."

Everyone tried their best to ignore this fact. Isabela was the first to recover, throwing her weight in another direction and shooting Aveline a suspicious glare as she questioned accusingly, "Why did you not get more of your men to look for her? There's barely fifteen with you, if that!" She fired another loaded, critical glower, scowling reprovingly as she challenged the woman, a harsh sneer twisting her lips, "Is she not that _important_ to you?"

Instantly, Aveline whipped her head around to face the pirate, and firmly replied, anger evident as she didn't bother to bite back an insult, teeth baring in an animalistic grimace, "Every single one of my men is out looking across the whole of Kirkwall for her, _slut."_ Isabela smirked derisively, steadily meeting Aveline's sharp gaze, unflinching at the deep revulsion boiling within. After a long, silent moment, the captain of the guard turned away from the former sea-farer who so often forced her hand, a disgusted shudder of utter contempt going through her features as she turned to the others, assuring them, confident, "I gathered my best to take with us: I trust them. They won't betray me for the templars, under _any_ circumstance." She glanced among them for a moment before turning to one of her men, mumbling something, and turned back, "Private Thornwood grabbed your armour from your armories, by the way. I think you'll need it."

The man she had mumbled to came back to the front at that moment, accompanied by two others, heaving their loads. Accepting their individual pieces, Anders, Isabela and Varric parted slightly to the side, shoving them on without ceremony, Merrill remaining where she was, knees and shoulders already padded, robe reinforcements attached hours before, instead sullenly boring into the floor with her wide eyes, twitchy and silent. Anders swiftly locked in his carefully cleaned armour to his enchanted robes that were fraying at the edges, never having been as beautifully stitched as Hawke's, the rest attaching their signature red leather satchels to their sides, the small seal of the Hawke household proudly imprinted onto the fine leather as it always was for someone closely attached to the Champion of Kirkwall, a striking symbol exemplifying their right of passage wherever they needed to go, as allowed by the state – although, Meredith had started to crack down on their little adventures. If it wasn't directly related to the capture of apostates – Anders gritted his teeth – she was never particularly happy with allowing them to go where they had to go. Things were only going to get harder for them, though: the shadow of change was starting to loom over the city, in the grumblings of the put-upon populace and the frightened select few among them who suffered with magic – he could feel it.

There was a long pause, filled with shifty glances round about themselves, either on the lookout for Sebastien and Fenris or Hawke herself, in a slightly more deluded wish they all held, as they finished armouring themselves, straightening and dusting themselved off, edgy. The minutes felt like hours to Anders, as his eyes twitched around everywhere, always coming to settle for a few more seconds on the foreboding tower looming ominously in the background, a landmark of the Templar's holding area for apostates. Hawke, long ago having been harangued and chased with the loaded brand of 'aspostate' marking her to all she met, seemed to suffocate his mind all the more when he caught sight of that obsidian mostrosity lurking on the edge of his vision, images of her suffering in untold horrors flashing through his mind. It was when the nightmareish image of her innards spilling forth onto her beautiful, rebellious robes, awash with a river of her blood forced itself before his gaze that Anders found that he was unable to stay there any longer, making painstaking small-talk as the most important person in his useless, insignificant life could be getting tortured – _or_ , Justice growled through his mind, _worse._ He went from one foot to the other, arms shaking with tenseness, until his voice broke through his clenched lips, stiff and barely controlled, " _Where are they?_ "

Appearing as though having clairvoyantly known of their mentioning, Sebastian and Fenris suddenly barreled along a nearby crossroad. They looked this way and that for an instant before Fenris' sharp eyes fixed on them and they swiftly joined together, the two groups striding forth and meeting in the middle, grim faces expectant on either end. In their arms, they each carried a bag, filled to the brim with bulky, suspicious items - a sprinting flash of deep, exotic blue from within one clarified to Anders that they had yet to stuff their newly acquired lyrium into their rucksacks. Appearing to have the same thought, they both quickly shrugged off their packs and carefully pushed the bags in. A few of the guards looked pointedly away from this, turning a blind eye.

The former elven slave and Starkhaven prince looked nearly the equivalent of Anders in their fury, Fenris all the more so than the other man perhaps, with a more distraught, tortured edge to Sebastien's strained features. Fenris' tattoos glowed with a blinding strength, the swirling lines and circles normally hidden beneath portions of his tight leather armour blazing through in their violent might. Sebastian was edgily fingering the worn symbol of Andraste emblazoned across his prized Vael family bow, glancing heavily up to the heaven, brow twitching. It was Fenris who spoke, turning away from his rival, Anders, to face Aveline, his voice low and dangerous, "Where now?"

Before Aveline had time to answer, Anders cut in, "The Gallows."

Immediately, Fenris whipped around, gaze sharpening. There was a brief pause of silence, where the others expected a usual sharp, biting challenge to Anders' honour, a tenseness dragging their shoulders up an inch. None, however, came. After a few seconds of standing, staring into the eyes of the mage he despised so, painfully much – pent-up anger from years of rivalling each other for something more important than honour or respect, a harsh regret and unforgiving circumstances out of his control boiling over in a noxious concoction of burning resentment – Fenris turned and walked away without a word.

Whilst the others rose their furrowed brows in surprise, Anders did the same as the elf, and started to sprint to his destination again. In truth, Anders wasn't shocked at all by the reaction of Fernis, the most fundamentally opposed person to him that he had ever met: for likely the only time in his life, he understood him. He understood that the intense fury of Hawke's kidnapping, and the overpowering, all-consuming terror that came with it blinded the senses to anything else. Nothing else mattered in the slightest. The world could come crashing around their heads, exploding, dying, shattering into a million broken shards, and they wouldn't care in the slightest. All that they cared about was _Her_.

Quietly, the rest of the group turned and followed them.

* * *

Finally coming to stand before the entrance to the dreaded Gallows, the nightmare that had lurked at the edges of all of their consciousness for years in fear of suddenly finding their lives irrevocably destroyed with the departure of their dearest friend, the large, tense group paused for just a moment, nothing more than a few mere seconds – but, in that instant, a worldlessly agreed to plan of action and empassioned violence was created. If they found that Meredith held Hawke, there would be all-out war.

Anders was certainly not torn about this prospect.

Shaking off the impulse to charge right in and rip the heads off of every templar who crossed his path, he strode forward, leading the eye-catching group, Fenris closely by his side for once as curious passersby glanced up once and again in mild surprise at the largeness of the unit making it's way across the icy stone slabs at such a strange time of the day. They passed through the intimidating draw-gate that was topped with brutal spikes, seagulls sitting in their path fleeing as they neared, a small cloud of stray black feathers shooting off behind them to fall into the trampled snow, crushed by the boots of the irregular crowd, torn and shredded against their heels.

Across the plaza leading up to the old slavery complex, Anders could see a number of Tranquil – a number that had increased exponentially in the years since Meredith had taken ultimate authority over the city, much to the dread of all striding forth with him – meandering aimlessly about, blank eyes slowly travelling over to the large group that entered, before returning to their non-business in their own, forcibly induced apathetic lives. In any other instance, Anders would be inflamed to the point of needing Hawke to push back the tide of Justice at his viewing of such injustice as the Tranquil: this time it was far, far worse - for all he could see when his eyes bored into the faces of those lifeless imitations of people, walking all the while towards the stone steps, was Hawke. Every woman he saw suddenly adopted her features, eyes still, frozen with no emotion, unfeeling and cold. The woman standing next to the potion stall – Hawke. The one sitting silently on a bench, completely alone in the world – Hawke. Over near the armour shop – Hawke; just up the stairs – Hawke; a few steps away – Hawke; up front - Hawke; there, Hawke; here, Hawke; everywhere there was Hawke, Hawke, Hawke. The ones who stood by Templars, working as obedient servants to those who had ripped their very spirit from their bodies, all bore the same nose, the same rounded mouth – but those mouths no longer smiled brightly up at him, a hidden secret tinging her grin with mischieviousness. The twinkling pair of eyes no longer shone in the morning rays of light as they slowly woke up to a new day. Her beautiful features just sat there, unmoving, frozen.

His scowl deepened.

Leaning against the frozen stone wall informally known as his office, silently observing a desperate bird trying to escape from the clutches of a trap atop a battlement of the fortress he was seated in the centre of, Lieutenant Commander Cullen spotted them across the way as they reached the middle of the frozen plaza, the moon finally beginning to sweep away the weak winter light and bathe them in darkness. The first two he recognised, aside from Aveline on account of her being the captain of the guard, were Merrill and Anders – two mages, both intimately close to the woman who had been at the top of the Templar's unspoken and unwritten list of people to watch from the moment she had set her booted feet upon the delapidated docks of their suffocating city.

During all of the years that Cullen had known Hawke, he had known she was a mage, along with her two friends – every person in Kirkwall did, especially after her very public duel with the Qunari Arishok all those years ago, up at the Viscount's Keep - but he never reported her or tried to arrest her. He had never been quite sure why. It could have been easily explained away that it was due to the immense power she held as the Champion of Kirkwall, prompting no one to wish to challenge her as long as she held her seat and maintained her constant guard of the city - everyone knew of the very lax way she had of protecting herself in terms of being an apostate, paying what she thought was due in heed to the powers that be, neither flaunting her powers nor disguising them. As such – or, in spite of this – she was held in good regard by both the peasantry and the aristocracy, attracting many a fan, with it quickly being not at all uncommon to see a small child glue some feathers to their threadbare tunic, grab a large stick and declare themselves apostates, much to both the fury and underlying fear of their mothers.

He had thought on this many a time, alone at night in his private quarters, staring at the ceiling, hearing nothing but the slow beat of his own heart, about why he let her be, and had come to that point as his concluding reason, his final point. But, turning onto his side, trying to close his eyes to the unwanted truth niggling steadily at the back of his mind, he knew, he just _knew:_ it wasn't that. It was the fact that Hawke's unending attempts to befriend him against his wishes - turning up at lunchtime, covered in blood that she inferred was only partially hers, asking him if he fancied an Orlesion sweetroll from the new bakery that had just opened up around the corner; enquiring as to the date of his birth whilst handing him over the quivering, slightly singed body of a criminal he'd been pursuing unsuccessfully for the past two years, a streak of his blood in its signature place on her nose; leaving a shuffling box for him outside his quarters on the day, much to his initial alarm, a little Ferelden tabby cat tucked carefully within, just like the one back at the Tower that they kept as a pouncing mouser, with a note telling him that her friend had always loved his own dearly and she thought he'd enjoy a little bit of company now and then, when she wasn't there – all of that had finally succeeded.

Sitting there, awkwardly holding the mewling ball of softness against him as it happily pawed at his tunic, marvelling at how much like Hawke the little thing was, with its endless raven fur, sticking this way and that as though it had just been blasted with a thunderous gust of wind, the bright blue pair of eyes gleaming up at him and the boundless energy jumping around its small body, he smiled – and, abruptly, suddenly, out of the blue, he came to a reeling epiphany. He loved her. He loved everything about her – her smile, her bright gaze, her spirit, everything, absolutely every part of her, _he loved._ He had found the person that had eluded him for his whole life, as he threw himself into his work to escape his dark thoughts of the past and to evade the ever-present, absolute loneliness that overpowered him when left free as he wished – the woman he had always been seeking, his soul mate.

And she was an apostate.

Coming to that dawning realisation, the indescribable high of being lovestruck fading slowly away, he paid no attention to the kitten as it insistently chewed on his sleeve. She was an apostate, a dangerous rebel against society, a criminal, an unstable explosion waiting to unleash itself upon the land and the people within; he was a Templar. He was supposed to capture her. He was supposed to imprison her, throw away the key. He was supposed to kill her.

Suddenly, a lick at the nape of his neck brought him back to where he was, sitting beside the half-hearted fire within his cold, empty private quarters, and, looking down, he found the cat – her cat – staring intently up at him, waiting for him to snap out of it. And, so, he did. He resolved to push his feelings into a cage, locking _them_ up and throwing away the key, and to ignore _them_ , to treat _them_ as dead as she should have been upon meeting him, running free from the Chantry and the establishment and all he'd ever know, so beautifully free – so she could stay free. Despite the rules saying otherwise, he would allow himself one chance of freedom, one, lone instance of ignoring all of the people saying otherwise, and he would keep her perfect gift – and he would leave her alone.

Since then, he had kept his promise, avoiding her as much as possible, ignoring her little notes slipped through his door at night, left hidden within his armour as he picked it up in the morning, stashed pre-emptively in a hidden corner of a house he raided, with excitedly scribbled messages ranging from 'What did you have for dinner?' to 'Guess who bet Varric at Diamondback? …not me, no – Isabela' and the odd, poorly drawn picture of her beloved Dog. He no longer glared at them, wondering aloud at how she had managed it this time, whilst secretly stashing them away for reading later on, a struck grin plastered on his face: he would look at them, face carefully blank for her to see if she was watching for a reaction, and rip them up. He held the pained hope that she would eventually take the hint, suffer hurt, or just become infuriated with him and the notes would trickle to a stop, leaving him to his loneliness – until one day, wandering through Lowtown, he felt something light swoop against his head, and, catching it with the swift instinct of a warrior, he found another tiny square of parchment folded up like a bird, and, opening it with a dark dread crawling around his stomach, he found nothing but an awful little 'You don't like me anymore, do you?' Whipping his head up, from the corner of his eye he caught a figure sprinting away across the roof of the slum above, footsteps echoing deafeningly all around him until they faded away, leaving him with an all-encompassing silence and the note, crumpled and dotted with moisture, in his tight grip.

He had thought that was the end of it, until, one day a few weeks after that, he had just sat down to lie in his bed, blankly tossing his boots onto the floor and vaguely stroking the fur of a quietly purring Feather, when, tucking a hand behind his neck, his fingers brushed parchment. Leaping up, sending his shocked pet rolling away onto the pile of his clothes, head caught in a stray sock, he brought it before him and stared, eyes sparking, to find a blunt 'I don't care.' And the crude, simply beautiful seal of the Hawke household splashed across the bottom corner in the way she had always done.

Falling back onto his bed with the first smile he's had in the longest time, ignoring the surprised meow piercing the night air as Her cat tripped over into it's food bowl, he laughed. From then on, the notes had resumed, and everything seemed to be as it had been before, but with an air of acceptance and vague happiness permeating his daily life with the image of her perpetual grin sticking happily around his thoughts.

Abandoning his inner reflection, Cullen nodded to the group swiftly approaching the stairs, striding forward to meet them, a bemused frown tugging at his lips at the lack of recognition they gave him, continuing to make their way forward. Sweeping his focus to the front of them, finding a jarring lack of startling blue eyes meeting his, his frown deepened – she was always at the helm of her friends as she cheerfully dragged them along on life-threatening adventures across the city, grinning widely all the while as she joked with her friend Varric (another prominent 'person of interest' to the upholders of law in the city). Something niggled at him as he increased his pace, coming to the side of them as he addressed Anders and her elven friend, ' Grumpy-Old-Fenris', he was reminded by a vestige of Hawke's enthused soliloquays concerning her mob of friends, who seemed to be the substitute leaders for the day, with a guarded, "Hello."

The two at the front turned, as well as the rest. There was a moment of stunted silence, before recognition dawned quickly upon their features, giving way to utterly bizarre, strangely dark looks, unnerving in their intensity and ambiguity of meaning, as they swiftly moved to meet him. Eyes moving over their ready weapons to the large crowd of business-like guards trailing carefully behind the irregular group that joined Hawke on her deeds and misdeeds alike, Cullen grew more alarmed by the second, finding himself twitching with the feeling of being caught in something that was very much out of his control.

Before he'd even decided whether or not to lead the conversation as they came to a halt before him, tense and unnervingly certain in their stares, the blonde mage who stuck to Hawke like glue, and who Cullen had never paricularly liked, spoke up, sharp voice piercing the freezing air, "Where is Meredith."

Taken aback with the strange request for information, used to being asked for tips or bounties from the group, Cullen stared at him, something about the man's posture setting off alarm bells in his head and prompting his mind to suddenly recite the pressure points for spirit energy in the body of a mage– a thought he quickly quashed as he broke the intense silence with a carefully neutral, "Out."

In that moment, another form of tenseness piled on the shoulders of the already taut people that stood ram-rod straight before him, and a harsh collective intake of air was taken in, the frail looking elven mage suddenly walking away to the side of the rogues at the back, brought in by a strained looking woman decked out in glittering golden ornaments, their names vaguely floating up in his mind as he observed them tightly. Pausing for just a moment, eyes honing in on the dried tracks of moisture blemishing Merrill's abnormally pale cheeks as the pirate woman, Isabela, patted her back, mumbling something into her fair ear, Cullen turned, his ever-present wariness growing more by the minute. Just as he opened his mouth to ask what was going on, the blonde man reaffirmed Cullen's underlying dislike for him by cutting in sharply, slicing the words short before they were birthed, "Where is she?"

Scowling at the opposing man, noting the strange blue glint to his eyes that would normally have prompted his sword to draw at the underlying spirit lurking below the surface, as invested as he was in the conversation, he instead answered simply, "Knight-Commander Meredith has travelled across the Ferelden Channel to Orlais in order to meet with the Grand Divine, to discuss the status of the Circle within Kirkwall – as she does every year. She has left me in charge whilst she is gone, so if you need to discuss something with her, I suggest you do so with me, instead – or wait a week." There was a long, empty pause. Behind the group, the square seemed to have lost whatever small allowance of liveliness it had had, with the bitter weather and sudden chill drawing many to retire inside earlier for the day, many of the stalls already having closed – a loud bang from the west side of the complex finally signalling that the last of the stragglers had moved within.

They were alone.

Eyes sharpening, suddenly realising that his sword and shield were leaning back against the wall he had so recently vacated, set aside for a quick clean, Cullen snapped out at them, his patience growing thin in the increasingly suffocating atmosphere, "What is going on here? What are your intentions – and where is Hawke?"

When Anders did not answer immediately, features darkening further, the well-known storyteller and full-time adventurer, Varric, did it for him, stepping forward from behind the thick cluster of guardsmen and women with Isabela and the noted Starkhaven priest, Sebastian, his usual easy drawl darkened slightly at the edges, a deeply careful tone to all he said, "We don't know where she is. We were hoping that _you_ would."

There was a moment, just for a split-second, when Cullen felt like he was about to burst out guffawing like a mad fool. Hawke _missing?_ There was no way – _no way_ – that could be true: as amicable and endearing as she could be, she was a very capable fighter, having lived her whole life escaping from the clutches of Templars far more bloodthirsty than he. There was just no _way_ —

That fleeting, hysteric disbelief was over before he could vocalise it, though, at the pure, dripping tension darkening around him. Absolute, jaw-dropping shock unhinged his mouth and silenced his voice before he managed to gather the strength to hiss out desperately, "What in _Maker's_ name are you talking about – where is Hawke, _what_ -?!"

"Why are you asking us, 'Ser Knight'?" Isabela interrupted abruptly, cutting him short, her sharp eyes piercing him, an ominous smirk tugging heavily at her lips, the smile not reaching her gaze as she continued with a sinister, false calm, "After all, it was you lot who took her in the first place, right?"

Silence.

The sudden, blinding blow, not to his character – he could scarcely care for anything less than how he did for that at that moment – but for Hawke, instead, the sudden, overpowering fear of uncertainty of whether she yet lived knocked Cullen's abruptly scattered thoughts askew and forced him back a step, his features sharpening and posture shooting further upright, voice suddenly bursting with volume, " _What happened?!"_

Aveline took charge now, her sword and shield glinting as she walked forward, her husband and colleagues silently following as she addressed the still reeling Cullen, fury laced throughout her words, "Hawke was taken just under an hour ago, in Hightown, by some of your men." She took another step towards him, matching him in her full Amazonian height and gleaming Capatin's plate armour, "Where is she, Lieutenant?"

Cullen ignored the strong gust of wind that seemed to be picking up, cloaking them somewhat in sheer whiteness and making it increasingly difficult to distinguish between the vast amount of edgy, suspicious people still completely wordless. A sharp ringing sound, at first just vague and nearly undetectable in the background, now seemed to be building, powerful and insistent, drowning his ears and forcing him back, suddenly feeling ill to his stomach.

Faces suddenly rushed past his wide, panicked eyes, the faces of his men. Would they do it? _Did_ they do it? Could he trust them? He thought he could – he thought they were good men, _his_ men, his _friends –_ There was – there was no way – _no_ _way in hell –_ But, wait. Wait.

_Meredith._

She had other men. She had a separate force from the normal Templar Knights – 'specialised' warriors trained in the weapon of Tranquility Inducement. Not every man could do that, not every Templar – only some – only a select few – and they were _all in her team._

_She did it._

_She_ _**did it.** _

_**She** _ _**took Her.** _

" _Oh, Maker_."

Cullen stumbled back, his hand jerking up to his head. The ringing was getting too much: it was reverberating round and round his head, echoing endlessly, overlapping over and over and over and it just wouldn't stop it just kept going going GOING-

"It _was_ her, wasn't it."

Stunned, shaken out of his inner chaos, head still swimming, Cullen looked up, wild-eyed, to find Fenris before him, stooped over to meet his gaze, eyes sharp and knowing, a snarl twisting his lips as he growled out, "Meredith did it."

" _-No."_ Suddenly, Cullen found the strength to straighten, throwing himself back upright, head abruptly clear as he forced the awful noise back to a dull roar, head shaking slowly, heavily, " _No._ She didn't do it – she wouldn't do it – _no-one_ would do it…Maker, why did this happen?! She didn't do it! She – _no!_ " Breathing heavily, he moved back, his hand pressed tightly to his mouth, biting his tongue until it bled, fixed under the sharp gazes of all of those figureless shapes in the wind. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he yelled out, furious, "These are my people here – they're not monsters, as much as you like to think, and they wouldn't take her, Hawke, of all people-"

"-They take hundreds of others like her every day of their lives!" Anders abruptly burst back into the conversation, striding forward, eyes blazing, staff sparking violently in his hands, "You _all_ do! _You do! You think they care about her?!"_ His arms flung out wildly, battering the wind, his voice rising to a roar, " _They_ _ **hate**_ _her! She's everything they've_ _ **always**_ _hated_ _ **– and they will KILL HER FOR IT!"**_

" _That's not true!"_ Cullen's strength was beginning to return, his voice gaining its power again as he strode forward to the middle, head shaking furiously, "I will tell you anything that can help you to find her, but you need to trust that I have had nothing to do with this – and neither have my men. Will you? Do you trust me?"

There was a silence. Anders stayed quiet, eyes boring into him, wordless. For what felt like an eternity, they all stood there, unmoving. Then, moving forward once more, Aveline faced him, "Tell us what you know."

Halting, Cullen turned, meeting her steady, analytic eyes. Finally, lowering his voice, unable to ignore the distinct feeling of being rejected, he answered, "Some men planned to go to The Rose tonight – many men. If there is anything to be found out…they will know it."

Not pausing for a moment, Aveline turned, nodded, and her men fell into line behind her, striding towards the exit. Immediately, the others followed, Fenris a bit slower to go than the others, glancing back to Cullen and Anders, who remained where they were, standing in the middle of the square. Watching the tight cluster of figures get battered by the wind, becoming increasingly cloaked as they strode forth, Cullen took a moment before turning, walking back to his sword and shield, and arming himself, slinging his shield across his back, sweeping frost away from the pommel of his blade with his gauntlet.

Seeing the sharpened gaze of Anders as he came forward, facing him again, Cullen scowled, answering the unspoken question, "She's my _friend,_ and I'm going to help you find her _-"_

"You're not her friend – you're a Templar." Anders' staff came before him, stopping Cullen short in his tracks, a flash of blue bursting in his gaze as his words ripped through the air, furious and low, "You are either with us, or with them – and if you are with them, _we_ will kill _you."_

A dark silence followed that assured promise, the wind whistling deafeningly around them as they stood, staring at each other, eyes sharp. By now, the only light illuminating them was the weak, diffuse beams from the moon, diluted by the harsh weather, bathing them in shadows and obscurity.

From beneath his frozen, snow battered chest plate bearing the seal of the Templaric Order, Cullen could feel the hidden pendant of household Hawke sitting assuredly on his breast.

Never shifting his eyes from Anders', Cullen finally said what he had known all along, "I'm with you."

Staring at him, Anders stood, unflinching, the sound of crunching feet hurrying desperately over the thick, obscuring snow echoing around the fortress of the only people Cullen had ever known. Then, without a word, he turned, and they strode forward into the looming night, driven to the horizon by the fear for the only woman they had ever loved.


End file.
